


Emissary of Hope

by otaku_lady89



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Derse Dreamers, Horrorterrors - Freeform, Mind Rape, Other, ish, lovecraftian imagery, non-descript sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:58:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otaku_lady89/pseuds/otaku_lady89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cronus Ampora gets more than he bargains for when he goes to the Horrorterrors seeking something out of Rufioh's Animes. Rose can fairly SMELL it on him, when he is done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emissary of Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [squigglenaut](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=squigglenaut).



Her smile. It was knowing and it was sly and it was painted black, and it was almost similar enough to the oily blackness between the stars that it made him shivver.   
  
"Tell me, Cronus... How did you enjoy the reception the Ambassadors of the Abyss prepared for you?" Her voice is full of amusement, of dark twisting knowledge that it makes him sick, his stomach roiling with the darkness of it.  
  
It reminds him of the dark roiling creatures that had caressed him. It reminds him of the touch of a cold so deep that one could almost burn with it. It reminds him of how foolhardy he was.   
  
He'd gone to them, knowing what they did, knowing the stories of their greetings, and knowing that they would offer him what no troll or human has been willing to. He went to them, in the dark and in the shifting blackness between Derse and the stars. Dersites hear the whispers, hear the calls, no matter who they are, and Derse Dreamers even more so.  
  
They were roiling long tentacles and shrieks of anger and rage and whispers of loss and sorrow, and it felt like being bathed in oil to be near them. The touch of their whispers on his mind made his insides curl away, wish to run, but... He'd promised himself to do this. He could handle this. He could take whatever they dished out, and hey, get some enjoyment from it too!  
  
He was so very, very wrong. As if sensing his mind, they wrapped their slithery coils around him. He could not possibly know how many touched him, could not count the massive writhing creatures that 'greeted' him.   
  
Cold and wet and dry and burning and so many sensations all at once, that Cronus felt drowned in them. It was a sensation that he had never experienced before. His gills flared, and tentacles slid into them. His mouth opened, and down tendrils went, rubbing at the back of his throat and choking him. Tears gathered at his eyes, and the violet of them wiped away on an oilslick-black coil of monstrosity.   
  
His body was penetrated, coaxed, pulled taut in the catch of the curls around him, thick and heady. They rubbed along his skin, electric and slick all at once, and he began to lose himself, whispers in his mind deep and dark and tempting. He could see stars and planets and see deepest despair and highest thrill, and he shrieked and cried as they broke him over the rocks of their bodies like the waves on the shore.  
  
And they let him free. Slick black in his throat and lips, buried in his nook and waste chute and over his bulge which seems reluctant to slide back inside him and still twitches in response to nothing. They let him free with knowledge of what it is like to feel the black spaces in between the stars, what it is like to live so long you have forgotten what breathing even was, and what it was like once to live. They let him free knowing everything about everything, and most of all...  
  
Knowing what hopelessness is, and how deeply, desperately, they yearn for what he represents, what she represents, in their violet eyes, in their deep wantings. These monumental terrors of the night, these creatures so vast that speaking with them too long breaks the mind.  
  
And they want hope that he cannot give them.   
  
So when she smiles, and asks him what he thought, he swallows against a deep ooze that isn't there anymore, feels the cold slither of a tendril down his cheek and up his back, and he licks his lips.  
  
"It wvasn't half bad." He replied, shrugging. "They sure miss you though, Miss Lalonde. A shame." He leaves her with a wink that wipes the smirk off her face, and they both know that there is no winning in this game.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a gift for Squigglenaut! Art is also by her and can be found at her lovely NSFW blog: http://lollylicking.tumblr.com


End file.
